


On a Dark and Stormy Night

by rin6



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-10 02:18:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15281409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rin6/pseuds/rin6
Summary: Three travelers from far off lands arrive in King's Landing in the middle of a rainstorm. Their goals are simple: find work, make money, and don't die. Podrick Payne shares at least one of these goals. As he juggles his duties at court and his personal life he finds it harder and harder to keep his head, now more than ever. This is a tale of mystery, intrigue, adventure, and maybe even a little romance.This story was just an excuse for me to place high-fantasy characters in a low-fantasy world and see what happens.





	1. Wyn I

The rain drizzled down the back of Wyn’s collar, making her shiver. According to their guide, it hadn’t rained like this in King’s Landing for years. Just her luck. The guide, a small, tan girl of nine years who went by the name Mya, led them to a ramshackle inn, where she promised they would find a dry place to stay the night, and could sleep without worrying about their coin purses. The prospect of not being stolen from agreed with Wyn greatly.

  
It was no small relief when she pushed open the door to the merry interior of the building. The ground level of the Song and Supper Inn housed a tavern, which catered to a number of folk from around King’s Landing, it seemed. The two upper levels were reserved for rooms. The place was illuminated with the inviting orange light of a fire, and candle-holders hanging from the ceiling.

  
The man behind the bar was a weary but jovial-looking man in his early fifties. He introduced himself quickly when Wyn and her companions approached.  
“Alton Waters, at your service!” He grinned at them, revealing more than a few missing teeth.

  
“Corrin High-hill, at you and yours! We are endlessly pleased to make your acquaintance, my kind sir!” Alton had to lean over the bar to see him, the tiny man doing his best to be seen.  
Wyn was more than happy to leave the pleasantries to Corrin. He was just under three feet tall, with curly reddish-brown hair that almost tickled his ears. His eyes were bright, and the smile he sported seemed almost too big for his face. Corrin easily pulled himself up onto a barstool to meet Alton Waters’ eyes.

  
To his credit, Alton recovered quickly from the initial shock of coming face to face with the “half-man”, and offered a hand to Corrin. He shook it eagerly. “We are very interested in perhaps renting out some of your very fine rooms for the duration of our stay in King’s Landing.” Corrin continued, never once breaking eye contact with Alton.

  
The barkeep nodded, leaning down to produce what appeared to be a ledger-book from beneath the counter. Pulling a quill from seemingly out of thin air, Alton began to write. “High-hill, is it? Rentin’ rooms? We can do that, surely, surely. How many rooms will you be needin’?”

  
“Three ought to do it!” Corrin looked behind him. “One for myself, one for the lovely lady, and a last one for the surly looking fellow in the back.” Alton seemed just then to become aware of Corrin’s company. He seized Wyn’s hand immediately.

  
“It’s a mighty pleasure to meet you, milady,” He released her hand. “And your name, sir?”

  
“Berian.” Although he was standing several feet away, his voice was easy to hear over the drone of the tavern-goers. Its smooth lilt did not match his outward appearance at all. Berian dressed all in neutral greens and browns, his mud-stained cloak brushing the floor. Even in the light of the tavern, it was difficult to see anything under his hood save for his nose and sharp, brown eyes.

  
Alton smiled. “Tis a pleasure,” He scribbled several more things into his ledger. “A silver stag per room, every two weeks ought to do it, milord High-Hill.” Corrin laughed easily, pulling the money from his coin purse. The amount was no issue.

  
“A fair sum for such sought-after rooms,” He paused, still smiling, though it seemed a little less genuine. “And please, Alton Waters, I am no lord, I can assure you of that. You may just call me Corrin.” Waters laughed and took the silver coins.

  
“Whatever you say, Corrin.” He put emphasis on the name, making it stand out with his strong accent. He slid three objects across the bar. “Here are the keys, you can find the rooms on the third floor. Quieter up there.” Corrin laughed again, gave the barkeep a grandiose salute, and slid off the stool.

  
“Well, that’s settled. Shall we see to our rooms?” As he and Berian made to leave, Wyn stopped, and turned to Mya. The girl had stayed to the side through the exchange, casting glances around the room. Wyn cleared her throat.

  
“How would you like to stay a while, and have a drink and some supper with us?” Mya gave her a confused glance.

  
“But you already payed me.” They had indeed; the girl had insisted on it the moment they had encountered her on the street. At the time, Corrin had laughed and handed her the money easily.

  
“I know,” Wyn shrugged. “But if the rain comes down anymore it’s liable to flood out there, and that table by the fire seems mighty cosy.” She pointed at the table in question, a cobbled-together piece of furniture that was directly adjacent to the large fireplace. Mya finally relented and allowed herself to be led to the table.

  
They ordered several small meat pies and a tankard of ale each. Wyn had hesitated, remembering that Mya was only nine years old, but the girl had waved it off, boldly stating that the ale was so weak it was almost water. She had, in fact, been right.

  
It seemed the clamor around them was finally starting calm, many saying final farewells before making their way up to rooms or pulling up cloaks to brave the storm. Soon the only ones left were Alton Waters, several older men sitting close to the bar, and their own small party. After her third tankard, Mya began to stand.

  
“You’ve been very kind, buying me food and all,” She said, pulling her cloak from its place on the back of her chair. “But I should go, or my mum will start to worry, especially with the storm.” As she pulled open the door to the Song and Supper, the sound of the rain came pouring in. She turned to bid them one last farewell. “If you ever need a hand getting around King’s Landing, you know where to find me.” And with that she was gone, swallowed whole by the dark rain. The door swung shut behind her.

  
Corrin was on his fourth meat pie. “Well,” He sighed, polishing off the last piece in one large bite, “Seems about time to turn in. Are you coming, my fine companions?” Berian stood, careful to keep his hood from falling off his face. He had remained silent for the majority of their meal, but a few stronger drinks had loosened his tongue slightly, and he had talked to Corrin for a while. Wyn was the last to get up, hesitant to leave the inviting warmth of the fire, although it was little more than a few embers by then. She followed her friends up the rickety stairs, giving Alton Waters one last smile before she left. He returned the grin and waved, wiping the bar down with a rag.

  
The stairs were cobbled together of many mismatching boards, and creaked with every step. The climb to the third floor was not a long one, but the rain had grown even louder the higher they got. _Quieter up here, my ass,_ Wyn thought. The three of them found their rooms easily enough, Berian and Corrin’s on one side of the hallway, with Wyn’s on the other. When she was finished dumping the contents of her pack onto the bed and floor, Wyn pushed open her door slightly. It gave one long _creeaaaaaak_ in response. She padded softly to Corrin’s door, and knocked two times. There was a short pause, and then a muffled ‘come in’.

  
She pushed the door open to find Corrin lounging on the bed, a small book in his hands. On the floor, Berian was sitting criss-crossed, pouring over maps of the area. His cloak lay in a crumpled heap on the ground beside him. The soft light of a candle on the bedside table illuminated his features. He had a narrow, elegant face, though it was smudged with dirt. As he looked over the maps, he kept absentmindedly brushing long strands of dark brown hair out of his face. Although he hid it under layers of dirt and cloth, he was extremely handsome. The most noticeable thing about Berian, however, was the way his ears tapered to a small, gentle point. It was not the only sign of his heritage, but it was the most pronounced.

  
He looked up as Wyn entered the room, flashing her a small, gentle smile. As she lowered herself to the ground, he said, “I’m just scouting out the area before tomorrow. It’s best to be prepared, King’s Landing is a death trap of dead end streets and seedy alleys.” Wyn grinned. Berian had always been suited for rich forests rather than grey stone cities. Corrin gently set his book down on the bedside table.

  
“I’ve been thinking about tomorrow, actually,” Although his voice was still light, its playfulness was gone and he was all business. “There’s a festival of some sort being held in the Red Keep for something or other; I say we make our way there and see what there is to see.” Berian nodded absentmindedly.

  
“On one hand I hope the rain lets up,” he never once looked up from his maps. “But on the other if the weather gets any warmer I won’t be able to stand keeping my hood up all the time.” Wyn laughed.

  
“Berian, I’m sure no one would even notice you. From far away your ears aren’t even that pronounced, really.” She shrugged. “Besides, it’s a festival. They’ll be so excited about everything else that they won’t be looking for strange men with odd ears.” He had the decency to smile, just a little.

  
“Everything is so very different here, it takes a while to get used to.” Corrin swung his feet off the bed and put his elbows on his knees. Berian gave his foot a poke.

  
“At least no one’s said anything about your stature yet, Cor,” There was a smile in his soft voice. Corrin laughed loudly.

  
“I suppose I do have that going for me!” He gave a half-hearted kick at Berian’s hand. “I hear there’s a lord up in the Red Keep that is rather, well, my size.” He grinned. “Here’s to halflings!” Berian and Wyn chorused ‘To halflings!

  
Wyn lingered with Berian and Corrin a while longer, but soon she grew so tired she had no choice but to drag herself to bed. She bid the two of them goodnight, and left them talking in soft voices.

  
Her room was small, but very comfortable. The bed was soft, which was a welcome change from travelling. There was a small window above the bedside table, water rivulets running down it and pooling on the outside of the sill. Propping herself up on her elbows, she could barely make out the twinkling of little yellow lights through the foggy window. Although it was growing late, the common folk of King’s Landing were still awake, the lights in their windows making a merry little sky of artificial stars.  
She wiggled under the blankets, and blew out the candle on the table. Even in the near-darkness, the lights from outside cast an almost imperceptible glow into the room. _Perhaps King’s Landing isn’t the worst place in the world to be_ , she thought. Wyn fell asleep safe and warm, listening to the patter of the ran outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! The next chapter will be from Podrick's point of view.


	2. Podrick I

Pod woke early, struggling to move his stiff limbs. The rain had stopped overnight, but he still felt the chill in his bones. He had slept outside of Lord Tyrion's rooms again, on the small cot with the scratchy, thin woolen blanket. Tyrion had reminded Pod that the boy had fully furnished quarters not even a three minute walk away, but Pod had insisted that he slept outside. He was slowly starting to regret it. 

"Podrick!" Tyrion's voice shot through the quiet morning, cutting through the heavy door like it was air. Pod flinched, and rubbed his eyes. In his hurry to get up, his foot got slightly tangled on the blanket, and he tripped slightly, only managing at the last second to keep from falling. 

He pushed open the door to Lord Tyrion's quarters, a large, lavishly decorated room with wide windows that overlooked the Keep. Tyrion was already dressed, and was sitting at his desk. He looked up when Pod came in. "Ah, good morning." He said rather quickly, putting down his pen and shuffling some papers. "As I'm sure you are aware, the harvest festival begins today, and I am being made to attend, no doubt as the entertainment," He gave a wry smile. "Anyways, I shall be wanting you and Bronn with me." Pod hesitated. 

"Bronn, my lord?" Tyrion gave a decisive nod. 

"Yes. He was quite excited at the prospect of attending the festival. Something about meeting lots of 'loose girls,' I believe." Pod said nothing. "I would appreciate it if you could seek him out and tell him that we will be leaving for the festival as soon as possible. It started at dawn." Pod nodded, and turned to head for the door. As his hand brushed the handle, he paused. 

"Shall I find the Lady Sansa as well, my lord?" Tyrion fell quiet. He was still uncomfortable with his forced engagement to the girl. She wasn't even older than Pod himself. Tyrion cleared his throat. 

"Yes, I suppose you should," He moved towards the windows. "Run along now, Pod." 

Although it was still early, the streets of the Red Keep were bustling, full of merchants and servants clamoring to get to their destinations. When Pod reached the brothel, he hesitated. He was always uncomfortable there, but the fact remained that it was where Bronn was most likely to be found. Just as he was approaching the door, however, Bronn burst out, straightening his collar. He had spent the night there. 

"What d'you want?" He gave Pod a quick glance, and kept walking. Pod had to jog to keep up. 

"My lord Tyrion wishes to see you, sir," Bronn grunted. 

"I already told him I was goin' with him, what more does he want?" He waved, and took off down the street. "I'll be there," Bronn had soon disappeared into the crowd. Pod sighed. It was time for the second part of his trip, and he was not looking forward to it. Every time he so much as looked at the Lady Sansa he seemed to put his foot in his mouth. 

It did not take Pod long to reach Lady Sansa's quarters, and he stood outside the door waiting to be ushered in by a handmaiden. It was Shae who pulled him in, directing him further into the room. Lady Sansa sat at her vanity table, several more handmaidens putting the finishing touches on her hair. It was an elaborate braid that twined around the back of her head, the auburn waves cascading down her back. When she saw him in the mirror, she shooed the women away. 

As soon as she stood to face him, Pod felt his cheeks warm. Sansa stood a good several inches taller than him, and was as graceful and as beautiful as the queen herself. Moreso, even. However, every time he looked at her, Pod was overwhelmed with the strongest sadness he had ever felt. Her beauty seemed strange and cold, any happiness buried deep within her, if it was even still there at all. He cleared his throat. 

"The Lord Tyrion would be greatly honored if you would attend the harvest festival with him today, my lady." Pod thanked the Seven that he didn't stutter. Sansa gave a small nod of her head. 

"Tell Lord Tyrion that I would be ever so pleased to accompany him, and that I will meet him in the courtyard outside his chambers as soon as possible," There was no emotion in her voice. Pod barely had time to bow before Shae was shoving him out of the room. As she closed the door behind him, he almost caught a half-smile on her lips. 

* * *

 

By the time they arrived, the festival was in full swing. Tents scattered the clearing, vendors, performers, and children running in between them. Pod and Bronn walked several paces behind Tyrion and Sansa, taking in the excitement, although Bronn seemed more interested in taking in the performing women than anything else. He disappeared shortly after, no doubt to talk to the girl at the fortune teller's tent that had been making eyes at him for the last ten minutes. 

 _At least Lady Sansa seems to be enjoying herself,_ Pod thought, watching as Sansa admired the flowers at one vendor's stand. Tyrion handed the man some coins, and presented a bundle to Sansa. She accepted them graciously, for her part. Pod wondered if perhaps Tyrion and Sansa would come to like each other after all. 

Their group had slowly been making its way to the center of the clearing, where the majority of the festivities were taking place. Fire dancers and jugglers and acrobats circled the clearing, entertaining everyone in the area. Sansa stopped to watch several female acrobats perform a series of complicated stunts, and Tyrion fell back to stand beside Pod. 

"I believe this is going rather well, don't you, Pod?" Pod nodded. 

"Yes, my lord." 

"Considering you suggested inviting the Lady Sansa, I believe I owe you one," Tyrion laughed; it was more genuine than most Pod had heard. "I seem to be saying that to you quite a lot these days, don't I?" Pod smiled. 

It seemed that the festival was coming to an afternoon lull, and the majority of the festivities would take place later in the evening. Podrick had been about to wonder when they would be returning when a loud voice called from behind him, "Lord Tyrion!" The three of them whipped around to see a man come barreling towards them. Tyrion stepped forward. The man was dressed in fine, intricately embroidered silks, which swirled around him as he walked. He knelt to clutch Tyrion's hand. "I am Aesir Baasha, and it is an honor to meet you," Tyrion looked just as confused as Pod felt. 

"I'm sorry, I don't believe I've had the pleasure," The man laughed. His bald head glistened in the sunlight. 

"No, no, of course not. I am a textile merchant from lands across the sea, but I have heard of you in King's landing." Tyrion smiled coldly. 

"I suppose they tell you stories of the demon imp of the Red Keep," Aesir shook his head. 

"Where I come from, people of your... stature are no less respected than any other. I have known quite a few halflings that rose to immense power." Pod had never heard that term before.  _Halfling._

"It sounds a wonderful place. I-" Tyrion was cut off as Aesir swept past him towards Lady Sansa. She stepped back slightly, but the merchant grasped her hand and kissed it. 

"The Lady Sansa. Your beauty precedes you, my lady." She appeared at a loss for words. "If ever you require the fine textiles needed for a dress, I would be happy to provide." She nodded. 

"I shall keep it in mind, Aesir." He laughed; a loud, raucous laugh that made his braided beard tremble. 

"I hope we shall be seeing each other again." And with that, he disappeared in a swirl of brightly colored fabrics. 

"What a strange man," Sansa voiced what was on all their minds.

"Indeed," Tyrion's eyes were glued to the crowd, looking for any sign of the merchant. "He must truly not be from Westeros, to have come up to the half-man and his traitor bride." Sansa flinched slightly, but said nothing. Perhaps she was getting used to Lord Tyrion's unique type of humor. Around them, quite a crowd had started to gather. It looked like there was about to be some kind of performance on the raised platform in the middle of the square. A selection of colorful performers had arrayed themselves across the stage. They began a complicated act, full of fire and music that delighted the crowd before them. Not halfway through the performance, Pod was jostled to the side rather roughly. An incredibly small man had tried to slide past him, but had instead knocked into Lord Tyrion. 

"My goodness, I am so terribly sorry, I was so distracted by the performance I forgot to look where I was going!" The little man was roughly the same height as Tyrion himself. He was dressed rather oddly, in bright greens and yellows, and he had a mop of curly, reddish brown hair. As Tyrion was trying to assure the man that no harm was done, he burst out, "Why, you're a halfling as well! You must be Lord Tyrion. Corrin High-Hill, at your service!" For once in his life, Tyrion appeared to be at a loss for words. 

"You're the second person I've heard use the term 'halfling' on this day alone," He finally said, looking bewildered. 

"It's the word for little person where I am from," High-Hill explained, shoving his hands in his pockets and sticking his belly out pompously. He wasn't a skinny man. "Allow me to introduce my traveling companions." He motioned behind him. A tall man with a dark green cloak stepped forward. "This is Berian, the most advanced cartographer I have ever had the pleasure to meet, and a fine hunter as well. And this," He took the hand of his second companion, "Is Wyn." 

She was easily the prettiest girl Pod had ever seen. Where Lady Sansa was graceful, she was wild, like the wildflowers Pod had seen in the forests outside King's Landing. Her reddish-blond hair was cut short, just past her chin. There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek, and one on her nose. Her eyes peered at him keenly, almost giving him the feeling that she was looking into him instead of at him. A worn green cloak was pulled over her shoulders, and under it she wore a simple tunic and trousers. A large leather bag hung at her side. 

"Just Wyn?" Tyrion's voice snapped Pod out of his daydream. 

"Just Wyn, milord." Her accent gave her away. Like Corrin, she was not from anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms. 

"What's a group of foreigners doing in a place like the Red Keep?" Straight to the point, like always. Corrin shrugged. 

"Looking for work, like everyone else. We have a very...  _broad_ skillset." Wyn tugged on High-Hill's hand. "But alas, we should be going." He bowed, and his hair almost brushed the ground. "Farewell, my lord." He allowed himself to be pulled along by Wyn. Berian gave a derisive nod their way before he followed his companions into the crowd. They had soon disappeared. This time it was Podrick's turn to state the obvious. 

"How is it we've met four strange people in less than ten minutes?" Tyrion shrugged. 

"As always, you speak the truth, Pod." He led Lady Sansa further into the square. "Come, let us see what all the fuss is about up here." Pod followed them slowly, allowing his sense to overload with the feeling of the festival. The noise of the crowd washed over him, delighted cheers and yells filling his ears. The smells of cooked meats and fried dough hung in the air, pulling people towards the carts of food vendors. 

The rest of the festival passed uneventfully, and soon it began to grow dark. Paper lanterns strung up between tents were lit, casting a soft yellow light. Bronn returned some time after dark, slicking his hair back with one hand. 

"The fortune teller's lass just wanted to.. read my palms." He gave them a wolfish grin. 

"I'm sure she did," Tyrion shot him an annoyed look out of the corner of his eye, but Pod knew him well enough to notice the hint of a smile on his face. 

Sansa seemed to have grown more and more comfortable the longer they were at the festival, and Pod had even found himself talking to her about lemoncakes, of all things. His words had come haltingly, but she hadn't seemed to mind greatly. After Sansa yawned for the fourth time (concealed behind a dainty hand, of course), Tyrion had suggested it was time they all got some well needed rest. 

They were on their way out when Lord Tyrion halted in his tracks. He patted his right pocket, and then his left one, and began looking back the way they came. 

"What's wrong, my lord?" Pod asked. Tyrion had a puzzled look on his face. 

"I cannot seem to find my coin purse, Pod." Sansa gasped. Bronn chuckled. 

"It's nothing you'll miss, after all, you are  _made of gold."_   Tyrion's look of displeasure grew. 

"Well, the purse did have an  _extravagant_ amount of money in it, but there was also a very important letter from some of my friends in the Reach." They all stared at him. 

"I bet it was that short fellow who took it," Bronn said, still seemingly disinterested in the whole affair. "The one with the yellow and green coat." 

"I believe his name was Corrin High-Hill, my lord." Pod offered. Tyrion started walking back to the Keep, leaving everyone to scramble to keep up with him. 

"Then, my good friends, it might be time to pay a little visit to Corrin High-Hill and his companions." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter! I hope this one works out well, Tyrion is one of the hardest characters to write ever. I'm super open to comments, so if you have any criticism or you notice a mistake or anything, let me know!


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